Cassandra
by Gondothiel
Summary: A relationship between a certain Jedi and a Nabooian woman unfolds as told to and seen by a young Padmé Naberrie. Told in several one shots, in no particular order.
1. Pause

Cas•san•dra noun

**Cas·san·dra **_noun_  
1. a daughter of Priam and Hecuba, a prophet cursed by Apollo so that her prophecies, though true, were fated never to be believed.  
2. a person who prophesies doom or disaster.  
3. a female given name: from a Greek word meaning "helper of men."

--

**( pause )**

"I never tell you stories anymore, do I, Padme?" I pause in removing my make up, and put aside the wet cloth. Half of my face is still caked with white powder, a quarter still with a thin layer of make up and the last, thank the stars, is blessedly clear. I turn away from my reflection, tuck a loose strand of dark hair behind my ear and frown.

"What do you mean?" The smile my elder cousin gives me is one I've come to dread in the last few days, since my return to Naboo. It is a hollow rendition of what her smile used to be, empty of the joy that used to characterize her. More than that it seems to emphasize the weight loss in her face, the fatigue in her eyes. I used to love that smile; it would take over her entire face, lighting it up like a star. Now I hate it, and I want to beg her to not smile, just relax. Not to make an effort to seem happy. Because she's not. Very few of us are. We may have won the war, we may have reclaimed our homes, but there was still so much to do. There were so many people to bury, and there would be still more in the coming days. There were towns to rebuild, morale to restore, faith to recapture. Happiness was a long way away.

"Don't look like that, Padme." She laughs, and this I don't mind. Her laugh hasn't changed and it has everything that her smile lacks. It lights up her face, makes her look alive, makes me think that maybe the war hasn't taken such a toll on her health. She pushes back the heavy covers, and slides out of the huge bed slowly. When her feet touch the floor a shiver runs through her, as if she's cold. But the floor is carpeted, and even though she might be cold, I know that's not why she's shivering. Her body is deteriorating. Her legs first; and now when ever she walks it hurts. She didn't tell me of course. Helene is too private for that. But I spoke to the doctor.

"Padme," she sighs, sitting next to me, her hand taking mine, "You think too much." She reaches behind me, and takes out the clip that holds my hair together beneath my headdress, then reaches for the brush sitting on the vanity. Suddenly, it's like I'm ten again, and we're sitting on her balcony, by the lake. I can hear the water, and the birds and I can smell that smell, the one that always makes me think of her. It's water and feathers and earth all mixed together. The breeze that wafts into her room only makes the memory more vivid.

"I wish we could go back," I say, leaning into her brush strokes. Her laugh is soft as she parts my hair and then begins combing the hair on my left side, asking me to turn a little.

"You'll go back," she replies with a smile, "It'll be yours soon, at any rate." I don't reply. I don't want to think about it. I don't want the lake house. I want what the lake house always meant. Family and fun and relaxation. True happiness at its best. Helene wasn't an aunt, or my big sister. She was my cousin. The one I went to see every summer in the mountains. The one that represented an otherworldly entity. I always thought she knew so much. That she had seen so much. She knew the name of every flower, every tree. She knew how to make bird calls, where the underwater beaches were, where the best spots to fish were. When ever I had a question, even when we weren't at the lake house, I'd call or write to her and ask her. And her response always made me think, and wonder.

I took a breath and closed my eyes. The lump in my throat was growing bigger. I couldn't cry. I wouldn't do that to my most beloved family member.

She settled in front of me and reached for the wet cloth that I had put aside earlier. The circles she rubbed into my face weren't at all gentle, and I marveled that she still had that sort of strength in her hands. The silence that followed was the kind I had grown accustomed to as a child; comfortable, easy, almost weightless. I allowed my face to settle into her hands, and scowled every once in a while, when her rubs turned particularly vigorous.

I examined her. My cousin had always been small; the presence of ill health and absence of weight ensured it. Neither of us had ever hoped to compete with the height that our fathers possessed. Her hair was the black typical of all our family and framed a face that had never been able to capture a tan. But her eyes were what I and nearly every one else, loved most about her appearance. Somehow, it would never be said of her that she had unremarkable brown eyes. The shade of them did not lean towards gold, or green or blue. They were solidly, undeniably brown, but a brown that managed to capture earth and confidence, a beauty that seemed to reside in nature alone. When I looked at her eyes I always felt that if I could capture their color in my personality I would be worthy of the people that I served.

A knock at the door coincided with her setting aside the wet cloth. She frowned and stood up, biting her lower lip. The glance she spared me was strange, but I dismissed it.

"Do you want me to answer it?" I asked her, but she shook her head and gave me the smile that I hated.

"What would they think of the Queen of Naboo answering a door?" She said, before leaving to answer the door. Her room connected to a living room that at any other time she might have had to share with another person, but she was the only person in this corridor. I heard the door open, and then nothing but the low murmur of voices. The sound rose and fell, almost rhythmically. Who was she talking to? And why was it taking so long? It was late in the night and truthfully, the doctor had stressed her sleeping early. She was sick and needed rest. So who would keep her up? Barring myself, of course.

A loss of patience forced me to my feet and to the door separating her bedroom from the living room. I straightened my shoulders, ready to give who ever was there a piece of my mind not as Padme, but as Amidala, the Queen of Naboo. But the sight that greeted me gave me pause.

I recognized Master Kenobi; though he could have been any of the Jedi that had come to pay their respects on Naboo, the spiked brown hair gave him away. Heat rose in my face as I realized that he was holding my cousin, his arms wrapped around her in a way I had only ever seen lovers hold each other, his face lowered to hers. His voice carried across the room to where I stood; I could hear their conversation clearly.

_I need you tonight, Helene. Let me stay here._

If possible, my face burned hotter still as full comprehension dawned on me. She had not expected me here tonight and had said so when I arrived, still dressed in my ceremonial robes. And clearly, Master Kenobi had not been expecting me either.

She wrapped her arms around him, allowing him to press a kiss to her lips.

_Helene.._.

She was breathless when she pulled away, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes left his face, turning to the doorway where I hid. My breath caught in my throat, and I moved back, afraid she would catch me watching. Their relationship should not have been. Master Kenobi was a Jedi and Helene...Helene was dying. She had been on Naboo for the duration of the invasion and what should have been years left to live had dwindled to months, perhaps weeks, under their harsh care. She was only twenty three. When had they met? And why had neither taken care to follow rules or think logically? It was a relationship that could not and would not survive.

Her eyes left the door and she turned back to him, "Wait a moment, here." She said, and kissed the palm of his hand, "I'll be only a moment."

I was ahead of her, and had gathered my robe. When she came in through the doorway, I was already as dressed as I could be, given the fact that I couldn't put the ceremonial clothes back on with out help. I had grabbed one of her own robes and slippers to wear back to my own quarters.

"Padme..." She started hesitantly, but I didn't need her to finish.

"Panaka is probably wondering where I disappeared to. I should probably return to my own rooms." She gave me a weak smile and this one I didn't mind so much. It was relieved, and instead of emphasizing all the wrong things, seemed to make them less.

"I will see you tomorrow?" I nodded and hugged her before leaving, stopping briefly to say good night to the Jedi standing in the room. Even as I was leaving, he was moving towards Helene,who was standing in the doorway to her bedroom, waiting to receive him. I paused at the door, and glanced back. The door had shut and I could hear nothing. The fire flickering in the fireplace was dying. Their shadows spread from the little light that shone from beneath the door.

And then, a whisper that I might have imagined:

_I love you, Obi Wan._


	2. Rain

( rain )

**( rain )**

The sound of rain woke him. It was beating a rhythm against the windows, the walls, the roof. A brief wind shook the glass panes. Beyond the the blurring mass of gray that was the outside he could make out the large lake, heaving and turning. He sighed and ran a hand through his spiking, brown hair, pausing to tug impatiently at his padawan braid. This was certainly one thing he might never be able to get used to when on foreign planets. _Weather. _

On Coruscant, where there was weather control, things like rain seldom appeared. And why should they, when you could control nearly everything but the wind? He chewed on his lower lip, considering the outside, before falling back into the pillows with a sigh. When he could leave Naboo, he was unsure.

_Protect the girl,_ he thought to himself, _Then you may leave._

But from what? Being dumped on a planet near the Outer Rim by his Master and told to protect a girl was hardly an agenda. He had no factors, no suspects, no leads or clues. As far as he knew, he might be protecting her from a mythological lake monster. In fact that was what he felt like he _was_ doing half of the time. While Qui Gon departed to Theeds to follow up tangible leads, he was stuck here, in the mountains, fending off ghosts. And it didn't help that Helene had absolutely no sense of self preservation. For some one who had had an attempt made on her life, she showed no care. She went as she pleased, did as she pleased, and laughed when he tried to curb her behavior.

He groaned. He simply could not win in this situation. He was the one most likely to be offed by a heart attack. Today, she had disappeared for three hours with out telling any one where she was going. Neither person nor droid had seen her leave.

_And speak of the devil..._

He could see a familiar figure standing in the middle of the torrent, clinging to the balcony railing. She was wearing blue, though, to his eyes, it looked black, darkened by the rain. Her hair, which had always amazed him in its length, whipped around her in a frenzy in some places and stuck to her face in others. Her face was lifted up to the sky, and even through the mess that was the space between them he could discern a smile of rapture on her face. She was going to fall. He could feel it, like an alarm screaming in his head. There was no possible way that some one as small as she would be able to hold out against the force of the gales outside. Muttering obscenities under his breath, he kicked back the covers, pulled on his shirt and grabbed his cloak before heading to the living room.

As he had expected the doors leading out to the balcony stood open. Water blew in, wetting everything in its vicinity; the gale that had been kept out in his own room by sturdy windows was blowing freely in the living room. What few papers there were whipped through the air, a coverlet that had been draped over a couch was now caught around a lamp stand and the fire that had been raring quite cheerily when he had retired had sputtered out.

And there, beyond the two gaping doors and in the middle of the rain, stood Helene. She stood erect, her shoulders thrown back, arms now above her head, hands raised to the sky, her head lifted in exultation. Her robe had fallen open, and he could see from his vantage behind her, was threatening to come off of her completely.

"Helene!" He yelled. She turned around, having, against all odds, heard his voice above the torrential downpour, and grinned. In that moment he was painfully reminded of a conclusion he had come to only hours before. There was nothing strange about her brown eyes, or unsettling about her overly exuberant smile. The mark above the corner of her left eyebrow wasn't disgusting and her unusually pale skin and red lips, though unusual and almost ghost like at times, suited her and her personality. The young woman that he had thought lacked very much in the looks department had suddenly turned beautiful to him.

He was pulled out of his reverie by her sudden movement, when she left her perch by the railing to come to him.

"Obi Wan!" She laughed, and tugged on his hand, "You must come outside; it's breathtaking!"

He shook his head to clear the fog in his mind, "You'll catch your death out there, Helene. Come back inside."

"I am inside, but I am about to go back as soon as you join me."

"Helene -"

"_Please_, Obi Wan. It's more than wonderful outside." He paused for a moment. This, he decided, was why the Jedi cautioned against emotional attachments. He was considering. Rationality, though a factor, had much less impact. It was no longer a question of whether or not this was a good idea. It was how happy versus how disappointed she would be if he declined to go outside. As if she could sense his dilemma and her impending victory, she grinned and pulled him outside.

He gasped when the water hit him, slamming into him like a million pinpricks of cold and wet, soaking him instantly to the skin. The gale, which had until then left his cloak alone for the most part, caught at the rough, brown fabric and jerked it into the air behind him. There was no relief beneath the water; it pounded relentlessly against everything, his skin, the floor, the windows, and Helene. He blinked. Until then, he had not been consciously aware that water could get caught in his _eyelashes. _

Helene's hand was still clasped tightly in his. She was examining him, her brown eyes missing very little of his reaction to the storm. In her eyes he could see the joy she received simply from being in the rain. Why? It was wonderful and exhilarating to be sure. He could contemplate that. The adrenaline that was pounding in his own veins was testament to that. But where was that child like joy coming from? He lifted a hand to her face, his thumb sweeping across her cheek, as if touching the place where he saw such joy would impart wisdom.

"Why are you so happy?" He could see the struggle in her eyes; she was battling with something again. More and more often he was seeing that look on her face. "Helene?" He prompted, moving closer.

"I like the rain," she finally responded. Despite the simplicity of the answer, he felt that it wasn't what she meant. Her eyes. Always her eyes had something to say that she would not. It was as if something in her head had finally clicked together, some problem had resolved itself. There was relief now; serenity seemed to smooth away a wrinkle he had not even been aware of between her brows. The space between them had closed and he had not even been aware of it. Now, suddenly, he towered over her. She was small in comparison to him, rising only to his shoulder, and thinner, too. She lacked muscle and true weight, so that she never seemed grounded. His thumb, which had never moved from its place on her cheek, stopped its to and fro movement. She laid her right hand across his hesitantly and looked down, afraid that the gesture would be rejected.

Their faces were close now, so close, he thought, that perhaps their eyelashes might have tangled if they moved closer still. Their foreheads touched, he could feel her breath, warm in contrast to the cold of the wind whipping around them, spread across his face and then fade away with every exhalation.

He was afraid to move, closer or further, for fear of shattering this moment. What little logic there was left for this night was telling him to move away, to return to his room, and bury this one sliver of time deep in his memory. But he didn't want to. This moment was perfect, in a way that he had not thought perfection could exist. It was not flawless, or picturesque. It was simple - she and him were there, alone, sharing something. Something that defied being named or given description.

"Obi Wan," he could not hear her voice above the roaring of the wind. But he could imagine it and the unique Nabooian lilt it gave his name, the way she could caused letters that he had not even known could be rolled, to roll. He wanted to kiss her, he realized suddenly. He had kissed before, to experiment and understand what all the fuss was about. And though he had not understood immediately - his first few attempts had been distinct failures - he had caught on soon enough. And yet, even during the successful attempts, _this_ had never existed before a kiss. All the biological reactions were correct, but what was happening in his mind and his heart were different. He knew that gratification would be present, but also that it would go beyond that. This kiss, he understood, would satisfy something beyond physical need. It would satisfy the something that had suddenly sprung up between them and now dominated this moment.

She stood on her toes now, closing the space between them that he had not dared to cross. The hand that had been nestled in hers now rested against her back. Their lips brushed, barely touching, and her eyes, those strange brown eyes, closed, her hands settling on his shoulders. He pulled her closer. Perhaps he could not move, or was afraid of what moving forward on his own would bring, but she would. And she did, pressing her slight frame against his larger one, allowing her body to give and mold around his. Still, they did not kiss. This was better, some how more important. A sharing of selves, perhaps.

They only returned inside once he noticed that she had begun to shiver. Once he dried off and changed, he returned to the living room, to find the doors closed against the storm, and Helene feeding wood to the fireplace. She looked up, her dark, wet hair pushed behind one ear, the sleeve of her robe trailing over the tips of her fingers. He could sense her fear immediately, and see it, too. It was difficult to miss the way her eyes widened marginally, and more difficult still to ignore the way her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. He did not know what to do. How to recapture the moment they had shared outside? How could he revive the trust that had survived between the two of them in the middle of the raging wind? They had only been apart for a few minutes. Was that significant?

The doors shook, rattling violently when a particularly nasty wind slammed against the house.

"Did you lock the doors?" An odd way to recommence communication, but usually successful.

"Yes." Perhaps not. Should he go to her? Should he ask her about their moment outside? And how would he refer to it? 'The moment'? But she took it out of his hands. She stretched out her hand to him from her spot on the floor. Wordlessly - and gratefully - he went to her, and took her hand, sitting beside her. After half a moment's hesitation he pulled her against him, tunneling his fingers through her damp hair.

"Helene," he sighed, as if that should convey everything he felt. Perhaps it didn't, but for now it was enough. Enough as she looked up at him, with a shy smile, and traced the dimple on his chin. Enough as he lay back against the cushions in front of the fire, and she curled against him. Enough, at least, for tonight.


	3. Fear

fear

**fear**

There was no silence in her room.

The wind whistled outside, high pitched and angry, slamming into her windows, rousing the waters of the lake into a fury. The soft swish of the pendulum echoed through out the room, low enough to agitate her ears, making her wonder if there actually was a sound. The small mechanical ballerina that sat on her dresser still had not run its course, and continued to turn around slowly, giving out small clicks every time it completed a cycle. Breathing, even and slow, came from behind her. Every now and then Obi Wan would shift, caught in dreams, murmuring softly. For weeks now the combination of those sounds had lulled her into deep sleep, courting a peacefulness that she had not known for a while.

But not this night. Even Obi Wan, with the tantalizing scent of his skin in her covers, the beat of his heart against her back, the warmth his arms exuded around her, could not lure her to sleep. Her eyes stayed open, riveted on the shadow the curtains cast on the wall. Fatigue beat at her body, but nothing; not counting stars, or the clicks of her ballerina, or the breaths that Obi Wan took could still her mind.Thoughts chased themselves in her head, resolving nothing of her dilemma.

She turned on her side, pressing her cheek against his heart. The sound of it beating away seemed to stir her thoughts further, and with a resigned sigh, she sat up. He stirred for only a second, a frown marring his features, before it smoothed, and he settled back into the pillows. Helene did not worry; he would wake when he noticed her missing from the bed. She was counting on it. A moment of searching revealed his Jedi cloak; she pulled it around her shoulders, crossing her arms over her stomach to keep it closed. The brown fabric was rough against her skin, but she loved it nonetheless. Obi Wan humored her in her desire to wear it; it was warm and protected her against her own inability to retain heat. She threw one last glance over her shoulder, before leaving the room as quietly as she could and headed for the study.

There was little light in her brother's study; it had been vacated nearly seven months previously and she had had little reason to visit. With trembling hands, she turned on two lights, then took a seat at the desk. The letter she sought sat in a drawer on her left, and she reached for it, her hands' trembling growing stronger still. The envelope had been opened, the letter read and reread enough times that she had memorized it. Despite that, reading it again still brought tears to her eyes. Her body shook as words that she thought had ceased to mean anything to her years ago suddenly became synonymous with pain and suffering.

She pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face between her legs and wept. Wept for all the joy she had found and would lose, for Obi Wan who did not know, for herself, who would cease to know Obi Wan in a few years time. The tears seemed to come from her center, her sobs escaping in heaving gasps. How could she show him this? How could she tell him that she had welcomed him into her heart knowing but not quite comprehending that they were doomed to failure? How?

"No," she sobbed, shaking her head, "no, no, no."

Pain ripped through her chest and she gasped, wondering which of her hearts pained her more, her physical or her true heart. Despite the pains, she could not stop the sobs, could not cease or regulate the gasping breaths. What had she done to him? To _them_? What selfishness had pushed her to ignore his Code and her own situation, to allow an innocent flirtation to become this? This, which took up and controlled her entire heart. This, which was doomed. Doomed from their first smiles, their first kisses.

She clutched the papers to her chest, tears still rolling down her cheeks, and wished that she could shred them. That she could rip them to pieces so that it would suddenly become untrue. So that she would never have to watch his face as he read the diagnosis on her body. So that she could forget and return to the existence that she had known, aware but uncomprehending. But she knew; she knew as Obi Wan walked through the door of her brother's study, worry etched on his features that she would not. She knew that she would keep the papers intact until he had read them. She knew, she knew, she _knew._

He knelt in front of her, the worry all the more evident on his features with him so close, and rubbed away the tears on her cheek, only to have more replace them. _Sshh,_ he crooned, _it's alright. _But it wasn't. Nothing was and she hadn't the heart to tell him. He pulled her into his arms, and she curled up in his lap, arms wrapping about his waist, as he rocked her slowly. The soft murmuring sounds of comfort that he made quieted her gasping, but could not slow the tears that streamed down her face.

"What's wrong?" He asked when all had gone quiet, save for the occasional hiccup that seemed to escape her. Her tears had yet to stop, and his thumb reached for her, trying to wipe them away. Her hands shook as she held out the papers that she had clutched to her chest. She could see in his eyes, the uncertainty as he accepted them, raising his head to give her a wary glance before reading it. She could see as realization dawned on him, as his face stilled and his hands, too, began to tremble.

_...terminally ill..._

...five to seven years...

...no cure...

...no cure...

...no cure...

"Who," he started, then paused, trying to control his breath, his voice, willing his Jedi training not to fail him now, "Who's diagnosis is this?" Helene could only look at him, weary and sad; could only watch as he repeated the question and then, desperately searched the papers. He already knew, even before he found the page with the patient's name highlighted, before it jumped out at him, in dark, bold print. Helene Naberrie. _His_ Helene.

"No," he whispered dejectedly, just as she had only minutes ago, "no, no, no."

It was like looking in a mirror, and watching as slowly, jagged pieces broke off, one by one, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing. She was in his arms now, her head resting on his shoulder, quiet, though he could feel the tears she cried against his skin. Did Jedi cry? He did not know, because he had never cried. Even now, the tears would not come. Only cold, harsh and angry, filled his chest, freezing his heart to the point he felt it breaking, cracks spreading, the whole of it falling apart, piece by piece.

And so they sat their, their arms around each other, wrapped in fear of a future that would soon cease to exist. They fell asleep in this way, he mired in the fear of losing her to the totality of death, she in the fear of ceasing to know of him. But one thought echoed through their minds, shared by both but spoken by neither.

_I love you._

I love you.

I love you.


End file.
